Perfectly Unsatisfied
by defectueux
Summary: Her father was gone. And she was not okay. ***This is just a short something I did while I was bored.


The sun was only just beginning it's slow decent and the rays that shone over the constantly fluctuating mass of water in front of me were vibrant shades of orange and carmine. A mundane scene to anyone but myself was such a heartbreakingly majestic sight to behold that my breath caught. The grass was a shade of the purest green, and small red and yellow flowers dotted the sun bathed areas closest to the pond.

I remember that I came here every day after it happened. I had spent every inconsequential moment of the next year of my life in this one place that held every cherubic and resplendent memory of my childhood. Another thing it held, was the truly abhorrent memories, memories of scolds and temper tantrums that could so easily have been avoided, had it not been for my lack of maturity. Oh, how I regretted those meaningless bickering sessions and feckless disputes, for they had caused animosity to saturate my voice while speaking to someone who surely hadn't deserved it. Even after concluding that these confrontations had only happened sporadically, my contrition refused to lessen. So maybe it was my regret that brought me back here, or possibly my longing to shield myself from the truth by surrounding myself with the effulgence of the only good memories I had left. The truth being that the one person who had unconditionally loved me my whole life was dead. He had died honorably, fighting for his country and the freedom of his only daughter, a mere 10 years of age and already a hard-headed, stubborn girl who was far too opinionated. I can't say that his death caused a major change in the _stubborn _aspect of my personality, but it definently afflicted a good amount of pain that had taught me lessons that a 10 year old shouldn't have to learn.

The sad part was, I could remember every detail about when I had received word that he was dead, vibrant spots of recollection among black and white memories. I had been sitting, legs crossed, with a book in my hand and my hair cascading messily down my back, unbrushed.

I had woken early in hopes of receiving a letter from Daddy wishing me a happy birthday. It was dark at first, the sun hadn't lazily dragged itself to it's rightful spot in the sky yet. Unable to read in the blackness of the too-early morning, I thought. I had thought about the best birthday present I could have received: My father coming home to me, even if for one day, and hugging me, and kissing me on the cheek, and singing songs severely off key just to stimulate my humor. I had a picture of him smiling triumphantly, me in his arms, as he told me how he had saved us all from the malevolent people who had started such trouble. I had always loved that thought the most, because it would have meant that my Daddy was a hero to everyone else the way he had always been to me. I would smile so brightly at him that his vision would be temporarily impaired, and I would tell him how proud I was of him, and how I was going to be just like him when I grew up.

My thoughts had already convinced me when a man in uniform approached, the snap of a stick under his boots signifying his arrival. His features were seemingly emotionless, overcome by indifference. Handing me a thick envelope, he turned on his heels and walked away without so much as a reassuring word. I stared after him for a long while before finally returning my attention to the letter gripped firmly in my hand.

I ripped it open, so sure of it's mirthful contents. But with only one glance at the telegram, I knew my optimism had deceived me. _Or is it my eyes that are tricking me, _I remembered wondering. I shut my eyes as tight as a baby does when presented with something of frightening nature, just to open them and see the same words starring me in the face, informing me of something I never thought could happen. Tears were there before I could notice them, falling in torrents down my face and dripping onto the contemptible piece of paper. I couldn't move, couldn't find my voice to even pray to God that this was some cruel trick, that my Daddy was still out there safe and sound. The most I could do was allow my legs to break, crumbling underneath me so that my knees were now digging into the moist grass-covered dirt and mouth "Daddy" profusely, as if thinking his name with enough power, enough _hope,_ would bring him back. One thing I don't remember is how long I stayed like that, completely vulnerable and just praying fervent prayers asking why on earth God would do this to me. Why would he take away the one thing in my life that was invariably there, leaving me by myself? Most importantly, what had I done to deserve such a cruel act of fate?

My abrupt breakdown had caused me to be oblivious to something, attached to the death announcement were several handwritten letters, untouched by the tears that had so brutally destroyed the initial message. It was his handwriting, that I knew for certain. It had an odd slant to it, caused by his left handedness and his untidy way of writing things. It had always irked me the way he held no regard for organization or neatness, but now it simply brought me comfort, like a warm hug from an old friend.

The letters, which I sat reading for hours on end, over and over again until they were engraved into my memory, were nothing more than heartfelt notes, saturated with father-daughter love. They held not only the common things a father would write to his daughter, but so much more. He kept repeating small phrases like, "Just like people, God always has his reasons" and "absence makes the heart grow fonder". Things that were obviously meant to comfort her in her state of sadness. Had he expected to die, or was he simply prepared for the worst? Both were plausible, but I didn't waste my logic on such impossible questions. Tears still undoubtedly there, and depression still weighing heavily on my shoulders, I stood up. To my own astonishment, I held my chin high, dropping the envelope and it's contents on the wet ground and walked away without looking back. Although I had come back almost every day after that, I considered it a very necessary right of passage: leaving the last remembrance of my Daddy behind and not even glancing back. I had fared just fine, I suppose, but I was never truly happy. Content at times, maybe, but never actually letting a smile reach my eyes or a laugh genuinely escape my lips. I didn't mind so much that he wasn't physically present, because in my head and my heart he was there. He would always be there. And he would always be my Daddy; a noble, brave man, priding himself on kindness while possessing the wits and knowledge of a wise elder. His green eyes, so identical to mine, would continue to sparkle, and I would continue to smell his musty, deliciously sweet scent when I fell asleep at night, often with tears in my eyes. Tears in my eyes, yes, but they would never spill over. They would just idle around my eyelids before I fell asleep. We had long talks, about pointless things.

"The weather today was gorgeous. It reminded me of the day you taught me to ride a bike." I said one night.

He would reply, animated and never bored by the conversation, "I remember that day. It was a fantastic day!"

I wouldn't dream, like I used to, instead settling into a black mist that symbolized a dreamless sleep. And I was perfectly, wondrously, resplendently unsatisfied.


End file.
